by Dan Stout
“Ronald,” I said.
“My boy . . .” she mumbled through a smile. “All I ever wanted was to protect him. I was just never . . .” Her lips worked, as she searched for a word. “Wasn’t strong enough. I wanted to be stronger.”
Her voice was fading, and my mouth ran dry at the thought of watching another person die in my arms. I thought back to the first time we’d had a run-in, desperate to find common ground to play on.
“You almost fell on the steps outside your place,” I said. “I caught you, remember that?”
“Sure,” she said. “You kept me from falling.”
I slipped on a mask of casual friendship and faked a laugh, trying to keep her talking, to stay with me in the moment. “You were out of your mind. You said you wanted to see the stars.”
Her brows creased. “No stars in Titanshade.”
“I know, but it’s what you said.” I made my voice as gentle as possible. “Ronald was there, too. You remember?”
“Ronnie.” Her voice grew louder. “My baby was there.” Her brow furrowed. “I just wanted to hug him, and I—I hurt him.” Her lips pulled in and her shoulders shook. She was crying, though her body was too desiccated to spare tears.
“The drops made me strong, so I could . . .” She exhaled, her pungent breath so dense it was almost visible. “Protect him. But I got sick. And the only thing that made me better was more magic.”
My heart beat faster as I put the pieces together. After I’d drained the strength from Jane’s vial, I’d dumped it into the first cobwebs I’d come across—Sherri. I’d amped her up, she’d been burning through the manna in snake oil. She needed to get more, and I’d given her the unnatural strength she needed to take as much as she wanted. She’d cleaned out the roost, then beaten the hell out of Dale Turner and sent him out to get more.
“I gotta be strong for my baby.” She struggled to stand, her sudden strength blossoming. I placed a hand on her shoulder, and the tingling danced up to my arm. Around us, the cobweb-filled air pulsed, delicate threads growing more tangible. The manna that fueled her magical strength was exhausted, but the threads between her desire and her strength still remained, maintaining a connection and devouring her. I reached for the invisible strands, trying to siphon their strength into her, trying to do something to make a difference for once in my miserable life. But it was too late.
Sherri’s eyes rolled back and her back buckled. Her flesh puckered and shriveled, skin crumbling like a desiccated orange peel. Manna rot claimed her body and her life. Ronald’s mother held my hand as she died, consumed by the magic of her love and the desperate measures she’d taken to find her own strength.
When I walked out of the bedroom, Jax held his suit coat crumpled in his arms. He had a phone to his ear, and was relaying details to be passed on to the incoming ambulance and coroner’s van. Somewhat miraculously, utility services were still operational.
In the corner where Jax had him handcuffed, the Mollenkampi man chuckled and belched, sending rancid odors drifting from his eating mouth. His biting mouth was no better, where long strands of mucus dangled from protruding tusks. “She’s just sleepin’. Boss always sleeps the sleep of the dead when she’s high.”
The boss.
My queasiness grew. How much harm had Sherri done after I amped her power?
I kept the man in my periphery as I approached Jax, though I didn’t have the courage to look in his drug-addled eyes and confront the question of who was more complicit in Sherri’s death—him or me.
Still on the phone, my partner turned to face me, and his jacket shifted in his arms. A single paw emerged, and a pair of feline eyes stared out at me. The apartment cat, frightened, confused, and—though she didn’t know it yet—safe. Jax had been paying attention to the living, even as I left a trail of death in pursuit of justice. He was a single star, shining all the brighter for the surrounding darkness.
I needed to get out of there, only holding on because I couldn’t abandon Jax. When heavy footsteps from the stairwell announced the arrival of paramedics, or patrol officers, or someone else to help manage the madness, I caught my partner’s attention.
“I need some air. You got this?”
By the time he said yes, I was already at the door. I walked, barely paying attention to where I was, breathing in the sulfur stink of the entry geo-vent as I ran my fingers through its warmth, then the bracing chill of the Borderlands as I crossed the threshold. I stepped away from the building, keeping my distance from the clouds of exhaust from rumbling delivery trucks. I thought of Sherri withering like the flower on Gellica’s table. Would any of that have happened if she hadn’t met me? Would it have been kinder and more merciful if I’d let her tumble down the stairs, rather than catch her and draw her into this nightmare of manna and spiderwebs? Eyes clenched, I turned into the nearest alley, wanting a few moments’ escape from the world’s never-ending series of heartbreaks and disappointments.
I stumbled across the alley cobblestones, counting each exhale and fighting for control. It took a long ten count, but I got there. I opened my eyes. I was standing among scattered trash and debris, across from a dumpster flanked by puddles of mystery liquid. There were drag marks on either side of the dumpster’s wheels, as if it had not only been pushed out to the street for collection, but also farther back into the alley. A pattern I’d seen once before. I took a long breath, ignoring the reek in the air, and looked up.
A massive mural stretched across the opposite wall of the alley. Its height would have required climbing on top of the dumpster, a clambering effort for an artist to create a display of pastel and chalk, in a style that matched the scrapbook I’d shown to Lillian Moller. But this design hadn’t been in the book or in the photos Jane left with Lillian. It didn’t show a politician or a figure from the city’s past.
This mural featured a man with eight fingers leaning on the side of his cruiser, his Mollenkampi partner beside him. The heroes of the ice plains were framed by a rainbow spray of manna against a star-speckled sky that faded into the dirty brick of the building. It was an image only a southerner or roughneck would draw—city dwellers so rarely saw the stars.
The man in the mural watched over the alley with eyes that were kind and wise. He’d never have let a dead woman remain nameless, or been too afraid to speak honestly to someone who made his heart pound. The man in that mural was like a funhouse mirror, showing all the traits that I failed to display on my own.
Larger than life, the facts before me couldn’t be ignored. Even as I was trying to find out who Jane really was, she’d believed in the man I never could be. My stomach rumbled and I doubled over, leaning against the urine-soaked dumpster and fighting to keep my breakfast of proilers and eggs in place.
Head swimming, I dropped lower to the ground, squatting on my haunches. To distract myself I focused on the mural, especially its field of stars. Was this what Sherri meant when she said she wanted to see the stars shine? No, that felt wrong. Just minutes ago Sherri had denied ever saying those words.
I racked my memory, trying to recall the exact moment I’d first encountered her, when she’d leaned into me, lacing the cobwebs around us, and telling me she wanted to go up . . . and see stars? No. Starshine.
I pushed away from the dumpster, eyes blinking as I stared at the silhouette of the Mount and the posh neighborhoods that grew at its foot. Those garbage-free streets where the wealthiest elements of society lived, along with the malignant tumor named Donnie Starshine.
30
IT TOOK SEVERAL HOURS TO process the scene at the angel’s roost. The uniformed patrol cops hauled away the living and the crime scene techs processed the dead, giving Jax and me plenty of time to lean against one of the cleaner sections of wall and plan our next steps.
“What’re you gonna do with the cat?” I asked. The bundle in Jax’s coat still squirmed from time to time, but mostly s
eemed content to curl against his chest.
“I don’t know,” he looked at the filth-strewn carpet of the angel’s roost, “but I can’t leave her here. I was thinking . . .” He blinked. “What did you do to your pants?”
I followed his gaze to my feet, where I’d shoved my pant cuffs inside the frayed gray tops of my socks. “They don’t teach you that trick at the academy?”
Brows furrowed, he shook his head.
“Then I suggest you pick up some flea spray on your way home. Or maybe something stronger.” I jerked a thumb at the dilapidated couch. “I don’t know what kind of critters like a bite out of Mollenkampi.”
Jax considered that. “I’ll need to spray this coat, at least. Speaking of which, hold her for me, would you?”
He transferred the bundled cat into my arms before tucking his pant legs as I’d suggested. As I held her, the cat peeked out at me, wide-eyed and confused, but trusting us to do the right thing.
I handed her back to Jax when he stood. “You ready to make the call?” I asked.
He sighed a discordant note and nodded. Then we dialed children’s services, and arranged to have them present when Jax went to notify Ronald of his mother’s death.
He waited at the door, as if I were going as well. But if Sherri had dropped Starshine’s name when we first met her, it was clear there was some connection. And the fact that Jane had clearly been in the proximity of the angel’s roost, combined with the fact that she’d told Lillian Moller she’d finally found manna—or what looked like manna to a dreamer—drew the threads even tighter. Throw the murder of Dale Turner into the mix, and it meant I owed a friendly visit to the man who had both the cash and connections to install the neighborhood dream factory where Sherri had died.
Even more importantly, if I wanted to learn about what the snake oil drug was doing to me without dragging my partner into it, then I needed to go alone.
So I made my excuses, and bore the disappointment in Ajax’s eyes. Then I went back to Donnie Starshine’s house in the Hills.
* * *
I arrived ready for a brawl, but when the door opened Biggs greeted me with a shrug and stepped aside. He led the way through the house, past the windows overlooking the party that seemed to always be going on around the pool, then back to the sunken living room, where we’d met the CaCuri twins less than two weeks prior. This time Donnie and Micah were its only occupants.
The pair sprawled on the couch in the sunken living room, the air thick with cobwebs that I did my best to ignore.
I painted on my friendliest face. “Hey, you two. How’s things?”
“Oh, man . . . Just fine, officer, just fine.” Donnie’s smile was as beatific as before. Now, though, I wondered more at what darkness lay beneath it. “What can we do you for?”
Micah waved, cocktail glass in hand. “You wanna drink?”
“Couple questions, is all.” I sat on a white leather armchair, the one Micah had occupied the last time I was there. When she’d casually threatened to crush our skulls like so many stuffed olives. “Off the record, of course.”
“Sure,” said Donnie.
Biggs took his place at the door. His continued presence was a reminder that while they wore friendly faces, it didn’t mean much. And if Gellica and I were right, the cobwebs I felt told me that they were using angel tears laced with manna.
“This is a nice place you got,” I said. “Did I mention that before?” I wanted to ease them into the conversation.
“Thanks, man.” Donnie tossed his head, carefully feathered hair swinging free. “That’s kind of you to say.”
“Well, I admire the way you keep yourself up above the fray,” I said. “It keeps the heat off you, right?”
He let his wide grin answer for him.
I mirrored his smile and his posture as I said, “There is one thing I’d like to know.”
“Like?”
“Like . . .” I leaned forward, one hand to the side of my mouth. “What the Hells do you have going on with the Harlqs and CaCuris?”
He chuckled. “Let’s say you want to fix a carelbarra match,” he said. “Something simple like not covering the spread. What d’ya do?” He looked toward the double doors, where his bodyguard sat in silence. “Biggs?”
The big man with the forehead tattoo considered. “Bribe players,” he said in his squeaky voice. “A couple on each team.”
Donnie threw his head back and laughed, a full-belly, knee-slapping guffaw. “No, no, no! Not if you want it to work.”
I spoke up. “He’s half right. Bribe a couple key players, but not the stars. The support players who make the stars look good. They keep the game close, and cost less money.”
The criminal investor wagged a finger. “Not bad, but you’re showing a blind spot.” His quick pulses of laughter verged on giggles. “How many teams are on a carelbarra pitch?”
I pondered this obvious trick question as Donnie grinned on.
“Two . . .” The thick leather upholstery creaked beneath me. “No. Three!”
Donnie bobbed his head, encouraging me to continue. “Home, away, and . . . ?”
“The referees.”
He chuckled. “Don’t mess with the players at all, man. Too greedy and too high-profile. Go to the refs. They control the pace and penalties.”
“So if the teams were gangs,” I said. “The refs would be—”
“Cuff me, officer!” Micah snickered, and held out her wrists.
“That’s it, baby! The trusty police force.”
“So you bribed the refs.” I hadn’t pegged Dungan as dirty.
“I never said bribe.” He slouched lower, allowing his head to rest against the soft back cushion of the couch as he stared at the ceiling. “You gotta have more smarts than that! What if you convince the refs that the players have been getting away with uncalled penalties and fouls all season? For that one game, the refs crack down, the players get angry with each other and take it out on each other. If the refs go too far, the crowd boos, and brings them back in line.” He cracked his knuckles. “You do it right, there’s nothing that can be pointed at as illegal. No bribes, no threats . . . but the result’s the same.” He sat back in the sofa, idly running a finger up and down Micah’s arm. “And then you collect your winnings.”
“There’s no guarantee that’d work,” I said. “In fact it probably wouldn’t.”
“Yeah, but there’s, like, way less risk.” He looked at a nearby side table, calling out, “Biggs, do we got any mints?” before turning his attention back to me. “And it’s much less cash-intensive. So you can try it as many times as you need, till it works.”
“Portfolio diversification,” said Micah. “Spread your bets, and one or two wins will make up for the losses.” She smacked her lips. “I want a mint too, Biggs!”
Donnie and Micah weren’t typical gangsters. They were financiers, spreading their money across many bets. And the quickest way for them to identify a winner was to set them against one another, like a child trapping two beetles in a jar. I swallowed, remembering how the CaCuris had gotten furious when I’d asked about dealers on their turf—they’d allowed the snake oil operation to run on their territory as a favor to Donnie. The idea to pursue my support had been planted in the CaCuris’ heads by Donnie and Micah, then they’d convinced Dungan to drag me to the meeting. Dungan thought he was playing the gangs against each other, and the twins thought they were positioning themselves for success, but at every turn we’d all been manipulated by Donnie Starshine.
There was no time to wallow in guilt. I rapped the arm of the chair, and put a note of wonder in my voice. “What I don’t understand is how you got the manna.”
“Whatd’ya mean?”
“Come off it,” I said. “Someone was smart enough to get their hands on a batch of angel tears and instead of selling it right awa
y, they experimented. Probably tried different batches, different percentages. What would it take to resist selling the manna on the black market? Serious self-control and long-term vision.” I leaned back and draped an arm across the chair’s back. “I gotta admit I’m impressed.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Donnie. “But if I had to guess, I’d say that whoever is making this snake oil stuff you’re talking about got the supplies from the initial strike. I mean, hey, they found you doing backstrokes in a lake of the stuff, remember?”
I shrugged, still playing up a casual indifference. “So next generation manna added to angel tears, just the slightest touch. It’d be enough to give the sheen without any effects.”
“In theory.” Donnie smiled. “But it would make a lot of sense, wouldn’t it?”
“Sure,” I said. “If you could find someone who had a connection to the first responders and guards at the manna strike. Maybe an ex-cop, maybe ex-medic.” I expected Donnie’s lips to pull downward, and his grinning, chuckling persona to drop away. But his relaxed grin only grew broader. “Could even be an old friend,” I said. “Someone from childhood, trustworthy enough to sell snake oil.”
“Snake oil’s for narcs,” Micah said, slurring her S’s. “Not really your field, right?”
“Except people died,” I said. “When people die, that makes it my business.”
“Good thing I’m not involved then,” Donnie said.
“Good thing,” I agreed. “Because if you were, I’d come for you.”
“I guess you would. And I guess we’d really find out who was smarter then, huh?” He practically beamed as he said it. Either his mask was still securely on, or he really did view the whole thing as a game.
I didn’t say that I was disappointed, that I’d thought maybe he was different. Because of course he wasn’t different. Nobody is.
“Well,” said Micah. “I wouldn’t touch the stuff myself.”
I smirked. The cobwebs in the air told me that was a lie. “If you say so.”